Remember me
by The Profane Angel
Summary: An extradition hearing goes wrong, carnage follows, and Claire awakens with no memory of Jack or anyone/anything. I don't own L&O, but, while playing in the sandbox, I heard the kids on the swingset talking about the possible return of CK for real - next!


"New Jersey is the armpit of the industrial northeast," Claire mumbled; they were stuck in traffic on the turnpike and the sun beat down on her little car.

"Nah, that's Hartford," Jack teased. "Princeton is the next exit anyway."

Claire groaned, the next exit might as well be a hundred miles away, they weren't going anywhere. "Why are we in New Jersey? Explain it to me again, because right now it seems like a very bad idea."

Jack reached over, lifting her hair off the back of her neck, a moment's respite. "We're in New Jersey because the Princeton PD picked up one of our gangbangers, and we're here to make sure he's extradited."

"And the DA in Princeton can't handle that on his own." She looked at her radiator gauge, it was creeping over the normal line.

"Claire, he killed two cops and a brand new ADA. Adam wants him hand-carried back to New York."

She sighed. She knew why they were there, it just made her feel better to bitch a little, but then she glanced at Jack, he was as miserable as she was. She reached over and patted his thigh. "I'm sorry, Jack. It's just a major bitch attack."

Traffic lurched forward and she put pressure on the accelerator, ready to stop on a dime any second, that was the pattern. Then she glimpsed the green exit sign, and with a determined frown, made a major bitch move into the breakdown lane and shot past the waiting cars to the exit. Jack laughed. "That's my girl," he said, grateful to be moving again.

"Please tell me you know how to get to the hotel."

"I do." They were staying in a Holiday Inn near the city center. He unfolded the city map the local DA faxed him this morning and navigated. Fifteen minutes later they pulled into the parking lot and Claire leaned forward, forehead pressed against the steering wheel. "God, I thought I'd spend my golden years on the turnpike." She yanked the keys out of the ignition and opened her door. "Let's get inside."

They got their bags from the trunk, a garment bag and a large duffle bag, Jack slung the duffle on his shoulder and draped the garment bag over his other shoulder, its coat hangers digging into his fingers. They walked into the lobby. Claire pointed to the reception desk, nearly hidden by a corner, and they trudged over, Jack slipping the bags to the floor. "Reservation for McCoy," he said, fumbling in his hip pocket for his wallet.

The receptionist tapped a few keys and looked at the monitor. "Double room, two nights?" Jack nodded, looking around for the bar. He saw it at the far end of the lobby, dark and inviting, and he nudged Claire. She rolled her eyes when she followed his line of sight.

"I'm showering first," she muttered.

Jack passed his credit card across the counter, the one issued by New York County to its employees, then signed the computer-generated registration form. The receptionist studied the card, looking from Jack to Claire and back to the card.

"Uh, sir, do you have some identification for this card?"

Jack reached into his back pocket again and brought out his credentials, his badge and ID card stating he was the Executive Assistant District Attorney for major felonies for New York County. The young man seemed satisfied and returned his card, along with two room cards.

"Fourth floor, room 415." He slipped the cards into a paper folder, wrote the numbers on the front, and circled them. "I hope you have a pleasant stay, let us know if there's anything we can do."

Jack nodded and grabbed their bags. They waited at the elevator for a minute, then were on their way up. Claire flapped her polo shirt away from her body. "God, I cannot wait to get in the shower," she said. "Talk about the trip from hell." She took the paper folder from Jack as the elevator slowed, then stopped with a bump. She left Jack in the dust as she sought their room, opened it, and made a beeline for the bathroom. She heard him close the door, heard metal scrape, then he stuck his head in the room.

"Room for two in there?" he asked.

"Oh yeah." She reached into the bathtub and twisted the faucet. As water ran, she peeled off her soggy clothes, then pulled the tab that converted the bath into a shower. She stepped in, then Jack joined her and pulled the curtain. She got thoroughly wet, then stepped aside for Jack, who held his face upward, into the full force of the water. Then he turned around, smiling, and hugged her before reaching for the soap. He yanked wet paper off the tiny bar and flipped the shreds out of the curtain. He soaped Claire first, he loved running soapy hands over her body, how she felt slick with soap, turning her carefully to wash her back, then passed the shrinking bar to her. She washed his back first, then the rest of him, teasing him with well lathered hands. The bar reduced to a knob, they rinsed, thoroughly, then turned the water off and stepped out onto the inadequate bath mat. "Next time," she said, "I'm springing for a five star hotel. The county's idea of adequate hostelry is, well, antiquated." She dried, pausing to glare at the towel, then finished and draped it over the shower rod. She walked into the room and unzipped the duffle, searching for a pair of panties. Jack came up behind her, nuzzling her neck. "Put that thing away," she said, but she smiled. He shrugged, then flopped on the bed, watching her dress, wondering how long it would take him to get those clothes back off. She pulled on khakis and a blue polo shirt, then got on the bed with him.

The air conditioning, the shower, the comfortable bed combined to ease Claire's tension. She still didn't feel like making love, getting all sweaty again, but Jack didn't push the issue. He rested beside her, hands behind his head, ankles crossed, his eyes closed. His breath was slow and regular, but she knew he wasn't sleeping. She felt yucky, bloated, PMS massing its forces for a full blown attack, and that made her more irritable - a couple of days away with Jack and of course it would coincide with her period. She took it as a sign that this extradition would not go smoothly, and she got up, rummaging in the duffle for the files she'd packed at the bottom. She brought them to the bed and sat tailor style next to Jack.

He opened one eye. "What are you doing?"

"Double checking everything."

He sat up, stretching. "It's all in order, Claire." He got off the bed, walking to the mini-refrigerator beside the desk. He knelt and looked at the contents. "Want a Diet Coke?" he asked. When she nodded, he grabbed a can, then a beer for himself. He came back to the bed and sat next to her. "What are you looking for?" He popped the top and quickly caught the spewing foam with his mouth. "Sick housekeeper," he muttered.

Claire opened her can more judiciously, holding it over the floor. "Want to bet she's a Mormon?"

He laughed. "You think?" He noticed her well-behaved Diet Coke, then regarded his still foaming can. "Maybe so. Someone shook the hell out of this can before loading it in the fridge." He looked over her shoulder at the bench warrant for one Kunta Kinte Smith and he shook his head. All those boys dubbed that made up African name after Roots came out were of age now, he lazily thought about running a BCS search on the name. Claire flipped the page, and picked up the application for extradition.

"Am I missing something?" she mumbled. She couldn't see it. Her clerk, Tim Thompson, prepared it, and he was nothing if not meticulous. She moved on to the summaries, the DD 5's, the crime scene photographs included in case the judge needed a little prompting understanding Kunta Smith's brutality. She stared at the black and white photograph of Hayley Fulop, a new ADA anxious to make her mark, she'd gone along for the arrest, much as Claire had done in the past when the crime had personal elements. Two months in gangs/narcotics, Claire thought, two months to live the dream, chase the golden ring, and she ended up dead in a hallway with two cops, two wounded detectives, and a hailstorm of bullets that took out anyone who hesitated a half-second, watching a running battle with police who thought they had the element of surprise, who thought the raid wouldn't be a big deal. The final toll: two dead cops, one dead ADA, sixteen wounded, and an embarrassed, furious Chief of Police and Mayor.

Jack's hands were on her shoulders. "Hard to believe a simple traffic stop caught this thug." He massaged her shoulders. "A beer run." He sneered. "Guess you don't go armed for bear when you're after a case of beer."

Kunta was caught turning into a 7-11 without using his turn signal. Jack knew it was racial profiling - two black males in a black SVU with tinted windows, music booming - the cops used textbook procedure to handle the two men, who feigned ignorance - sorry man, the signal must have burned out, I'll get it fixed today - no, dude, sorry, I didn't bring my license with me, my bad - and the cop, shining his flashlight in the back seat, caught a glimpse of chrome, enough for him to panic and call backup as he and his partner got the men out of the car and into handcuffs. He had no idea how lucky he was, even when he lifted a .357 out of Kunta's waistband. Reality didn't hit until they were back at the station and fingerprints came back. He barely made it to the toilet.

Claire thumbed through the background report. Kunta Smith was a major player, ran one of Harlem's biggest drug operations, with a little loan-sharking and protection "services" thrown in for variety. He had a large, well equipped private army to protect him and his interests. His favorite taunt to police was you can arrest me, hold me until arraignment, but you'll never see me doing time at Attica. She closed the file and looked at Jack. "We will get him back across the river?"

"Yep." He kissed her. "The courthouse will be an armed camp. Our Mr. Smith has pulled off his last gun battle. No one's underestimating him now."

She leaned against him, pushing the file away with her bare foot. "I keep thinking about Hayley Fulop. The cops should have told her how dangerous it could be, made her stay outside until it was over."

"Bad intelligence, bad execution." He wrapped his long legs around her, his arms closing over hers. "We can think about him tomorrow." He kissed her cheek. His thumbs stroked her breasts, which were ultra-sensitive.

"Jack." She caught his hands with hers. "I'm just not in the mood."

He held her elbows, whispering in her ear. "That's OK." He gently rocked her. "I'm happy just to hold you."

She leaned her head into his shoulder, his cheek grazed hers. She smiled, she knew she'd hit the lottery with Jack. Joel Thayer or Brad Campbell would insist, accusing her of teasing, knowing as she did that they were naked behind her, naked and ready to throw her down and take her. She winced when he accidentally brushed her breast.

"Oh," he said, and he curled a strand of hair behind her ear.

She nodded. "Oh yes. Raging PMS."

He let her go and leaned back on the bed, propped on his elbow. "No big deal. At least you tell me." He smiled. "Diana would just throw things at me - if I left the toilet seat up, you'd think it was time to reconvene the Nuremburg trials." He flopped back on the pillow, mashing it into a lumpy support. She turned on the bed, facing him, her legs bent into a tailor's position.

"I'm still trying to understand what you saw in that woman."

"One of life's unfathomable mysteries," he said. "It sure as hell wasn't great sex."

Claire blushed, then stretched out beside him, her head in her hand, her elbow jammed into a pillow. She'd gone head to head with Diana Hawthorne over Jack, over her deliberate falsifying evidence to win a trial, Claire had cut Diana off at the knees on the stand. She'd used what she knew as Jack's lover, of Diana's almost desperate effort to hold on to him, to corner her on the stand, humiliating her as she exposed that desperation. She felt turnabout was fair play, for Diana had treated Claire as some shallow sex toy where Jack was concerned, implying she could lure Jack back to her bed anytime. She hadn't asked Jack much about Diana, nor had he volunteered much. His anger dissipated when Diana took the plea, he'd used his body to tell her all the things in his heart where she was concerned, his gentleness meant to erase all thought of Diana Hawthorne and the imagined passion between Jack and his former lover.

"You know," she said, drawing a line from his elbow to his hand with her finger, "you say more with your body than you ever do with your voice." She hooked her little finger with his. "Why is that? You can't claim to be an inarticulate man."

"Maybe it's more direct, less capable of deceit. Oh sure," he cut her off with a crooked smile, "men can, will, have sex with a dog if it's willing, but there's a huge difference between sex and making love. Sex gives a man release, but five minutes later, he's looking again. Making love both drains and fills, the release is different. He wants more for a different reason." He reached over and touched her cheek. "I had sex with Diana. I make love to you, with you."

"I know." She took his hand and kissed his palm. She glanced down at his erection and smiled. "Don't hurt me," she said, sitting up to pull her polo shirt over her head. "I'm a little tender, shall we say."

He didn't. He was a gentle as if she was a virgin, supporting his weight on his arms, watching her face, alert to any sign that he was hurting her. When it was over, he shifted to her side, cradling her, content to lie there all night.

The phone rang. Jack sighed, then raised up and reached over Claire for the phone. "Hello."

"Mr. McCoy? Jack McCoy?"

"Yes." He rolled over Claire's body and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'm Scott Talbert, Princeton DA. I thought we might meet for dinner tonight, go over everything. There's been a lot of street chatter, that our man Kunta Smith isn't going down with the New York DA's."

Jack frowned at his feet. "All right. When and where you would you like to meet?"

"I thought I'd pick you up at the hotel, take you to a restaurant in the historical district. Not the kind of place Kunta Smith's associates would frequent." He coughed. "Does six sound OK with you?"

"Yeah, sure." He looked his watch, it was five, then he glanced at Claire, who sat up, holding a pillow in her lap. She cocked her eyebrows and he shook his head. "Meet you in the bar?"

"Fine. I'll be with my assistant, you can't miss him, he has orange hair."

Jack grinned. "I'll be with mine, can't miss her either, she's drop dead gorgeous."

"Look forward to it, Mr. McCoy, we'll see you shortly."

Jack hung up and looked at Claire. "We're having dinner with the district attorney and one of his associates," he said. "We're meeting them in an hour."

"Oh great," she mumbled. "What am I supposed to wear?"

Jack shrugged. "Clothes? Just go with casual, what you had on before I talked you out of them." He got up and went to the duffle bag. "He made noises about an expensive restaurant, not my idea of a good time, let's dress down and he'll be too polite to push the issue." He stepped into his shorts. "I'm more in the mood for beer and burritos."

Claire fastened her khakis, then ran a belt through the loops. She went into the bathroom with her makeup bag. When she came out, Jack was in khakis and a light blue polo shirt, just sliding his feet into Weejuns. She got her purse, slid a key into it, and followed Jack into the hall.

"So who is this guy? She asked, taking his hand.

"The DA? Never met him, but what I've heard is he's a major hard ass. He probably wet his pants when he found out who the cops picked up." The elevator doors slid open. "He'll want all the credit for catching Smith." He shrugged. "That's easy, no problem, just so long as we haul his ass back to New York."

"Who's doing the escort? Our cops or New Jersey's?"

"Ours." They got out of the elevator and walked to the bar. There were a handful of men scattered along the varnished bar, all focused on the game on TV. Jack nodded at a booth against the far wall, then went to order their drinks. Claire sank into the cool leather of the bench, pressing her back against the high backboard and relaxing. She watched Jack, he smiled at something the bartender said, then came back with two drinks. He placed hers on the table with a small flourish, then slid into his side of the booth. "I applied to Princeton," he said, "just for shits and grins. I knew there was no way my old man would spring for it, but I just wanted to see if I'd get in."

"Did you?"

He grinned. "Of course." She laughed, and he caught her hand across the table, weaving his fingers through hers. "You went to Smith?"

"I did. Mac had my life planned for me." She sipped her scotch, her gaze locked into Jack's. She squeezed his hand. "It was a good plan, except for the part about marrying some Harvard law professor."

Jack snorted. "An EADA just doesn't hack it in Mac's world?"

"He likes you, Jack."

"He just wishes I was younger, worked in a Wall Street firm, and had at least a rusty silver spoon in my mouth."

She frowned, Jack was right and there was no denying it. Mac was five years older than Jack, and he never let Claire forget it. Because of it, she rarely saw her parents, she was tired of hearing about May-December relationships and the failure rate, not to mention her self-limiting choice of career. The last time Mac brought it up, he's been ugly - too much to drink, Claire admitted, but still, no excuse - telling Claire the only reason she stayed with the DA's office was lust. She'd walked out of her parents' penthouse and gone straight to Jack's, walking in on him sprawled on the couch in his underwear, watching a basketball game and drinking beer. She was naked by the time she reached the couch.

"Mr. McCoy?" They looked up at a man drifting through his thirties, crew cut and buttoned down, acne scars pitting his cheeks. "Scott Talbert," he said, extending his hand. "And my associate, Mark Mason." As Scott sat next to Claire, he sent young Mason for a round of drinks. He looked at Claire, appreciatively, and extended his hand. "I'm Scott," he said. "Mr. McCoy was right when he described you as gorgeous."

"Claire Kincaid," she said, pulling her hand away as quickly as possible.

"Are you an attorney, too, or a paralegal?"

Claire looked at him, he was not hitting on her, she thought, not with Jack sitting there and giving him a testosterone charged look. "I'm an ADA, Jack's assistant. Smith is our case."

Scott glanced at Jack, dismissing him. "Where'd you go to school?" He looked up as Mason returned with four drinks, mumbling an absent thank you as he put one in front of Claire.

"Harvard," she said, her foot finding Jack's, telegraphing a distress signal.

"I did, too," he said, delighted. "How did we end up in public service? Well, I know how I did, too much partying. What year?"

"Ninety-one." She looked at Jack, who was amused now, he was letting her squirm, damn him.

"Eighty-eight. Damn, we just missed each other." He smiled, and she looked away, he needed an introduction to a toothbrush. She glanced at Mason, whose eyes had glazed over with boredom, he was apparently too familiar with this show. Jack leaned back, watching. "I thought about working in New York, but opted to stay close to home. My mother's ill."

Is she now, Claire thought. He moved closer to her, and Claire pressed against the wall. "Sorry to hear that," she said. She cleared her throat, struggling for something to say. "Uh, what time is the hearing tomorrow?"

Scott looked at Mason. "Well?" he snapped. Mason straightened up.

"Nine," he said, and he sipped his drink, sending a helpless look Claire's way. "Shall we pick you up?"

"That won't be necessary," Jack said. He looked at Scott, then at Claire, and unleashed one of his killer smiles, reaching for her hand. She wove her fingers through his, then glanced at Scott. He frowned, staring at their joined hands.

"You're her supervisor?" he asked Jack.

"I am. At work." His smile was evil. "I think the roles are reversed outside of the office."

"Hmph." Scott drained half his drink. "Wish we could date our subordinates. Our DA is a real ball breaker, she sticks her nose in everyone's business." Disappointed, he turned to Jack. "When is your transfer team coming in? We'd thought we'd get the extradition order tomorrow, then slip him out early Saturday morning, not give him time to arrange some dramatic escape attempt."

"They're on stand-by, I can have them here in a couple of hours," Jack said.

Mark Mason cleared his throat, then said, "You might want to bring them in tonight, be ready for tomorrow. A couple of CI's have indicated Smith has plans."

"Mason." Scott didn't bother hiding his disdain for the younger man. "You're too gullible. Smith talks a good game, but there's no way he's going to escape - unless the boys from New York screw up." He looked right at Jack.

Jack frowned, he wouldn't rise to the bait. Smith's killing spree had taken everyone by surprise, they wouldn't make the same mistake. Adam had a SWAT team to handle the transfer. Smith didn't have the resources to take on a SWAT team. Still, he'd call Adam and have them there for the hearing, ready to move him out as soon as the order was signed.

"Ever been face to face with our boy Smith?" Scott asked. "He's one scary dude."

"No," Jack said, "but I've seen my share of scary dudes."

"He's one big man, looks like he could have played lineman for the Giants if he's chosen a different path. I got right in his face, though, when they brought him in, told him he was going back to New York and the needle. Told him Jack McCoy himself was coming to get him. He flinched at that one."

"You told him I was coming?" Jack looked at the man as if he'd just materialized in the booth from somewhere in the galaxy of idiots. "Didn't they teach you anything at DA school?" He looked at Claire, she swallowed scotch to hide her sudden fear.

"Hey, your reputation even extends across the river," the man blathered on. "You should have seen his expression. You guys want to go get dinner?"

Claire felt sick, then a wave of cramps hit. She looked at Jack, don't you dare, she thought, do not subject me to this asshole on second longer than necessary. He nodded, he'd let her carry the ball. "I'm not feeling well," she said.

"You do look a little pale," Scott offered. "But you have nothing to be afraid of, Claire, our people have your back."

"I'm not afraid," she said, "I just don't feel well."

"What about you, Jack, want to go out to dinner?"

"I'll stay with Claire," he said, finishing his drink. "Thanks for the offer, though."

The two New Jersey attorneys got up, and Jack and Claire slid out. Jack shook hands with Mark Mason first, his 'nice to meet you' sincere. He told Scott they'd see him in the morning, then he put his arm around Claire and walked her out of the bar. She leaned against him in the elevator, really not feeling well.

She put on a nightshirt and got in bed when they got in the room. Jack stripped down to his underwear and slid in beside her. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

"No, I took one of Dr. Avery's magic pills," she said, snuggling into his armpit. "Can you believe that guy? And why did you let him hit on me?"

Jack laughed. "I thought about staking my claim, but didn't want to offend your feminist sensibilities."

"Next time we run across the likes of him, offend away."

"Want me to have stickers made that say 'Property of Jack McCoy' and slap them on your forehead?"

"Only if I can wrap one of my own around your cock."

"Deal," he said, kissing her forehead. "Sleep, love," he whispered. "We have a busy morning ahead."

Jack and Claire dressed in what they called 'court clothes' - Jack and his two thousand dollar suits and tailored shirts, Claire in her equally well made suits and silk blouses. They had coffee in the restaurant downstairs - the breakfast buffet offering nauseated Claire, and Jack steered her into a far corner, away from the primary source of the smell of grease, the sight of people lining up to load their plates with underdone bacon, potatoes shiny with grease, stubby sausages. He poured coffee into her cup, smiling. "What's up?" he asked, then poured his own cup and twisted the top of the decanter.

"Nerves, maybe. A major PMS binge." She shrugged, then picked up her cup, taking a tentative sip. Starbucks my ass, she thought, as it rolled over her taste buds. "You think there'll be trouble?"

"No." He stirred sugar into his coffee, then met her troubled gaze. "Is that it? Talbert was just trying to impress you, you know that."

She nodded. "But Mason wasn't, and he looked like he wanted to say more about it."

Jack leaned back in his chair, extending his long legs, holding his cup in both hands. "Mason's a kid, it's probably his first year in the office. You think that ass really went to Harvard?"

Claire smiled. "No, but I didn't feel like challenging him. My guess is Umass, night school."

He was encouraged by her smile. "That's the first time I've ever seen someone try so blatantly to get in your pants, right in front of me."

"I don't think he viewed you as a romantic interest."

"You making fun of my age again?" He grinned.

"I'll take age over a young jerk anytime. At least you don't have to be housebroken."

He finished his coffee and looked at his watch. "We should head for the courthouse. I'll go get my briefcase, you finish your coffee."

She nodded, then watched him walk out of the breakfast room. He sauntered, she thought, wondering if she'd ever be that confident. He turned the corner, and she looked down at her nearly empty cup, then reached for the decanter.

"Well good morning, Claire."

She almost poured coffee onto the table. She put the decanter down and looked up at Scott Talbert. "What are you doing here?" She tightened the top with a final twist.

"Wanted to make sure you guys made it to the courthouse." He sat in Jack's chair and reached for the decanter. "Princeton can be confusing."

"Jack's very good at map reading." And very good at putting young punk lawyers in their place, she thought.

"You really dating him? He's kind of old. I see you with some young, dynamic guy, not someone who probably creaks when he walks."

She stared at Scott Talbert. "Excuse me?"

He plowed on. "I was just surprised, that's all, that a young, hot thing like you would date an old man."

"He's not old, and it's none of your business."

"Really. If you say so. I've heard he's a hell of a lawyer, that he'll do just about anything to win. Who'd he have to knock off to win you?"

"Were you born an asshole, or did you just become one as a defense?"

His smile was irritating. "I just speak the truth."

Then Jack stood there, looking down at the man sitting in his chair. His eyes were narrowed, then he looked at Claire and softened. He put his hand on her shoulder. "What brings you here, Mr. Talbert?"

"Just wanted to get you to the courthouse on time. Would you like to ride with me?"

Claire looked up Jack, go with the flow, she thought, please. Jack squeezed her shoulder, then said "We'll follow you." Scott nodded, and pushed away from the table. Jack took Claire's elbow as she rose. They followed Scott outside, it was overcast, with a stiff breeze blowing the smell of smog in their direction. Claire gave Jack the keys.

The courthouse was harder to find than they'd anticipated, and Claire saw the merit in Scott's presumption. He got them into employee parking, directing them to a spot on the edge of his row. "That's Mason's spot, I told him you'd be using it this morning." He leaned against a pillar, waiting as they got out of the car. "Want to see him brought in? He's coming through the employee entrance. Our cops are all over it." Claire was getting annoyed with his digs at the NYPD, she decided he'd busted his ass to get on with the NYDA's office and failed, and now he spent all his time tearing them down. Though he'd asked, he didn't give them a chance to answer, he led them to a ramp and down to street level.

The employee entrance was inside the garage, across from the gate, where a man in a blue on black security uniform sat, looking bored. He glanced at the three attorneys, then turned his attention back to the monitors. A gaggle of local cops loitered in the area, congesting it, they seemed clueless and wandered back and forth, looking for something constructive to do. Another security guard, in his three wheeled patrol vehicle, stopped just on the other side of the security barrier, getting out to speak to the man inside the booth. Jack looked irritated at this colossal waste of time. A radio crackled, and then the cops moved to flank the narrow passage for cars exiting the garage. Claire leaned against a pillar, bored, moving to give Jack room as he joined her. A squad car leading a windowless van approached, pulled to a stop just beyond the exit driveway, and two cops got out as the van pulled into the exit lane. Claire noticed the security guards look up, tense. She saw the van's door slide open and another cop jump to the ground, holding his hand out for the passenger.

Kunta Smith was a big man, she thought. His eyes played over the scene, then he sat down on the edge of the van, shaking off the hand on his elbow. Then all hell broke loose, the two security guards jumped to the head of the van, automatic weapons in their hands, spraying everyone in sight. It happened so fast, she thought, as something slammed into her chest, her head, and then she thought no more.

Jack took one in the shoulder, falling across Claire, who'd been hit as well. He crawled up her body, shielding it, felt another bullet slam into his leg, and then he was motionless, his blood mingling with Claire's, hoping the shooters would think he was dead. He heard shouting, heard running feet, a car starting on the street, heard shrill screams from the people approaching from the garage. Then there was silence, as if time stopped, he sensed people standing around, helpless in the face of so much carnage, then he heard sirens. Many sirens.

He was gently lifted off Claire, put beside her on the slick concrete. A man checked him over as two men turned Claire over, working frantically, and Jack called out to her. His clothes were cut away, pressure bandages applied, he was put on a gurney and into an ambulance. Claire, he called, but he was ignored as an IV was inserted in his arm. Something was injected into his IV line, and his pain dissipated, but not his fear. Paramedics attached an automatic blood pressure cuff to his arm, one of them looked down at Jack and pushed blood-soaked hair off his forehead. "They'll bring her in," he whispered. "You have to be strong for her." Jack wanted to nod his head but he slipped into blackness.

When he woke, he was in a room with four other beds, all occupied by men hooked to IV lines and tubes. He had a headache, his shoulder hurt like it did when he separated it in a high school football game, he knew he was in a hospital but he didn't know where, and then he remembered - Claire. Where was Claire? He tried to sit up, but pain stopped him, and he looked for someone to answer his questions.

A woman in a white lab coat came into the room. She saw Jack and came over, pulling a chair to his bedside. "Hello," she said. Her lab coat had Dr. Lisa Cuddy stitched in blue on her left breast. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been shot, I'm not feeling so good," he said. "Where's Claire? Is Claire all right?"

"And who's Claire?" she asked, with that practiced gentle tone of the medical profession.

"Claire Kincaid, my ADA. I saw her shot, twice, I wasn't fast enough to save her." His leg throbbed. "Where is Claire?"

The doctor reached through his bedrails and pushed a button, then sat back, crossing her legs. "Ms. Kincaid is in the next room, sleeping."

Sleeping my ass, Jack thought, struggling again to sit up. Again, pain slammed him back on the bed. A heavy nurse came up to his bed, and the doctor said something about morphine, bring his chart. Jack squinted at the doctor, he had to focus. "I need to see Claire. Is she going to be OK?"

"You can't see her right now, Mr. McCoy, she's sleeping, and you're in no condition to move around."

"Where are we? I need to call Adam."

"You're at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Tell me who Adam is, and I'll call him."

The nurse came back with a red-backed chart and a syringe. The doctor made a notation on it, then nodded, and the nurse injected his IV line. The doctor passed the chart back to the nurse, then focused on Jack again. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Yeah. Men with automatic weapons sprang Kunta Smith from custody. I think a lot of people were shot. I have to talk to Adam, Adam Schiff, the District Attorney for New York County." He felt the drug overtake him. "Please." Tears filled his eyes. "I have to see Claire."

Her smile was patient. "I promise you can see her when you're better. And your Adam is here, he's in the waiting room, would you like to see him?"

"Please."

She nodded and got up. He watched her walk out, watched her look at each man lying sleeping in their beds as she went, and then Adam came in. He looked like he'd aged ten years and he didn't have ten years to give. He wore an open-necked blue shirt and khaki pants. He moved slowly, painfully toward Jack, then took Jack's hand in both of his.

"You're back with us, son." Adam's penetrating gaze searched every inch of Jack's face.

"Claire," Jack said, interrupting Adam's inventory. "How is Claire?"

Adam dropped heavily into the bedside chair. "Claire isn't doing so well, Jack. She took a round through her chest - through and through - and one that dug a trench in her skull as it passed. She's still in a coma, like a lot of these guys." His eyes moved around the room. "Eight dead, five wounded, Smith's in the wind." His eyes narrowed. "Somehow the Princeton DA in charge of the hearing escaped without a scratch."

"He set us up?" Jack's voice cracked. "That little asshole set us up to be slaughtered?"

"It hasn't been established yet. He was found cowering behind a concrete pillar."

"Have you seen Claire, Adam? That doctor won't let me see her."

He stroked Jack's head. "I know. Right now it's immediate family only."

"What the hell am I?"

"I know, easy, Jack. You aren't ready to get up yet. You took a couple yourself." He looked at Jack's other arm, in the hooked cast supported by a metal rod, the cast on Jack's leg. "I'll talk to the doctor, see if you can't be wheeled in for a few minutes or something."

"I am her family, Adam," he whispered.

"I know. I'll explain. They've got the head of the hospital in charge of all this."

"That woman I just saw?"

He nodded. "I'll go talk to her. They're going to kick me out in a minute anyway, this is intensive care." His smile was weak. "In case you were wondering." Adam got up and held the bedrail. "I'll do what I can, Jack, and if you need anything, let me know."

Adam left the ICU, passing two nurses on their way in. He found the Dean of Medicine at the nurse's station, going over charts. She was young, he thought, very pretty, with a quiet competence mixed with kindness about her. She turned as he approached, respecting his office as he respected hers, aware that two of the wounded people lying in her ICU were his. "Mr. Schiff," she said.

"Could we talk for a moment?"

"Sure." She led him to an alcove furnished with a couch, drink machine, and pay phone. "How can I help you, Mr. Schiff?"

"It's about Jack McCoy -"

"He's awake, he's going to recover, it'll just take time, maybe six-eight weeks."

He smiled patiently. "No, I mean Mr. McCoy wants, no he needs, to see Claire Kincaid."

She frowned. "Ms. Kincaid is in serious condition, Mr. Schiff, you know that. We're only allowing immediate family in to see her."

"That's just it, they are family, Dr. Cuddy."

"They're married? We didn't know that, her mother didn't mention it."

He sighed. "No, they're not married, not yet, and I'm not surprised her parents didn't say anything about their relationship, they don't approve." He rubbed his forehead. "He needs to see her. She needs to know he's there. He needs to see how badly she's injured, he has to prepare himself. They are everything to each other, Dr. Cuddy, trite as that sounds. Get him in there, please."

She nodded. "Of course."

"Thank you."

A couple of hours later, Jack stirred as his bedrails were lowered and he was moved carefully onto a gurney. A nurse put the gurney rails up, then draped a light blanket over his legs. "Where?" he asked, trying to focus. The two nurses rolled him out of his ward and made a sharp right, then wheeled him into another room, with a single bed, blinds drawn against the sun, lights dimmed. He was rolled next to the bed on its far side, so his good arm could touch the sleeping woman in the bed. He stared at her, trying to process what he saw: a young woman with a shaved, bandaged head, with a bandages wrapped around her shoulder and neck, tubes attached, monitor wires running from her chest to machines at the head of the bed. Black circles around her eyes. "Oh God," he whispered, "Claire." His hand shot out to the still one by her side. It was warm, that was good. "Claire." He spoke naturally, hiding his fear, as if he was waking her from a Sunday afternoon nap. "Hey. Claire?" Her chest rose and fell, the only movement from the bed, and he felt his heart sink. "Claire? You have to fight this thing, we have plans, remember? I love you, Claire." He looked up as the nurses edged him away from the bed. "No," he said, "let me stay a little longer."

"Can't do it, Mr. McCoy, sorry."

He stared at the ceiling as he was rolled back, fighting tears. His Claire, so happy, so full of life, so willing to try anything once, to climb on the back of his motorcycle on a Saturday morning and trust him to take them on an adventure, was now reduced to that still, silent body on a bed. It broke his heart.

He was released from the hospital two weeks later. A physical therapist taught him how to dress himself until the cast came off, then he'd be seeing her twice a week as he regained use of his arm and shoulder. He used a cane to help support his wounded leg, a leg brace his constant reminder of the bullet he caught for Claire. Given a generous prescription for Percocet, Adam came to take him home. He spent a few minutes with Claire, still in a coma, despairing of ever seeing those eyes open, light with pleasure when they saw him.

Adam helped him into the back of the limo, then got in after him, careful not to jostle him. Jack stared out the window, at the hospital, feeling torn. "I shouldn't leave her, Adam," he said, as the driver put the car in gear and eased forward.

"There's nothing you can do for her, Jack."

He looked down, at the leg that stuck into Adam's floor space. "You think I can do anything at work?" He raised his head and met Adam's eyes. "You think I can do anything productive as long as she's in there?"

"I think she's getting the best possible care, and the best thing you can do is get back to throwing people like Scott Talbert in jail." He patted Jack's arm. "You can come here on weekends."

A lot of good that would do, he thought, but he knew Adam was being generous. He kept his thoughts to himself as they drove back to the city, then Adam and his driver helped him into his apartment, settled him on the couch with a Diet Coke, the remote, and pillows and blankets. He wore sweatpants and an old shirt with the sleeve cut out of it, he couldn't manipulate zippers or buttons. As soon as Adam left, he swallowed two Percocet and found a ball game on the tube.

The heavy cast came off a week later, and he shed the leg brace at the same time, though he needed the sling and the cane. It took him a long time to shower and dress, but he managed, going back to work for the first time six weeks after the shooting. A temporary ADA had been assigned to him, a young man with a broad solicitous streak, Jack let him do all the work while he stared out the window, thinking about Claire.

The phone call went to Adam. He thanked Dr. Cuddy, then hung up and stared at the phone. He pushed away from his desk and walked through the side entrance to Jack's office. The young man was summarizing a case, Jack was staring over his head, in another world. The youngster stopped talking when Adam came in, and Jack noticed the silence. He looked at Adam, then suddenly pushed away from his desk and faced him, trying to rise.

"She's awake, Jack," Adam said, "but there's a problem."

Jack got to his feet, holding on to the desk. "What," he said.

"She doesn't remember anything."

"That's not surprising after major trauma." He hobbled to his clothes rack and yanked his coat off its hangar. "Can I borrow your driver?"

"Yeah, sure, but Jack, you aren't hearing me."

He got his coat on and eased his arm into the sling. "What am I not hearing?"

"She has no memory, Jack. She doesn't even know her name."

Jack leaned on his cane. "That's not unusual with head trauma, Adam. I don't know when I'll be back --"

"If you'll hang on for a minute, I'll go with you." Jack nodded, and waited in the anteroom connecting his office with Adam's. Adam came out wearing his suit jacket and carrying his briefcase. "I'll be New Jersey with Jack for the day," Adam said to Marge. "I can be reached through the Dean of Medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital if an emergency comes up. Give Herschel Jones any major case that comes up." He looked at Jack. "Henry awaits us."

Jack cursed his limp; he wanted to run, to leap slow, shuffling citizens in a single bound. Instead, he found his pace matched to Adam's, and it was frustrating. Henry had the limo waiting curbside, leaning against it. When he saw Adam and Jack, he moved to open the back door. Jack got in first, sliding across the leather, groaning as his shoulder banged the door. He fumbled in his jacket pocket, his fingers closing around the bottle of Percocet. He dry swallowed two as Adam settled into his seat and closed the door, then slipped the bottle back in his pocket.

"Princeton, the hospital," he said to Henry, then looked at Jack. "Pain still an issue?"

Jack nodded, staring straight ahead as Henry merged into traffic.

"The doctors said it was to be expected."

It seemed to take hours to get to the hospital, Jack growing more tense with each passing mile. When Henry finally pulled into the semi-circular reception driveway, he almost leaped from the car before it came to a stop. Adam gripped his forearm, almost yanking him around.

"Jack. Get a grip. She may not remember who you are, are you ready for that?"

"She'll remember me." They walked into the lobby, and threaded their way through people to the elevator bank. Claire had been moved several weeks ago to a private room on the fourth floor. Jack pressed forward, bumping into a female doctor leaving the room. "Sorry," Jack said.

She cocked her head, studying him. "And you are?" She looked down at the chart in her hand, then back up.

"Jack McCoy. Excuse me." He tried to move around her as Adam caught up with him. The woman looked at the chart again, saw his name, and nodded. "She's just come out of a coma, you have five minutes."

Jack stepped into the darkened room. Claire's head turned on the pillow. Her hair was growing in. He came up to the bed, smiling, restraining the urge to touch her face, to kiss her. He met her curious gaze. "Hello, Claire," he said, his free hand resting on the bed rail. "It's Jack."

Her expression remained blank. "Jack," she said. "You're Jack, I must be Claire. You said Claire?"

He nodded, running his palm back and forth on the stainless steel bedrail. "Do you remember anything about the shooting?"

She shook her head, then saw Adam. He came up beside Jack. He smiled, said "Hello, Claire." Her eyes were blank as she looked from one man to the other.

"Who are you?" she whispered, "and why can't I remember?"

"I'm Adam Schiff, the District Attorney for New York County. This is Jack McCoy, my executive assistant DA. You were his assistant." Adam spoke as gently as he would to a child.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember." She looked at Jack, at his pained expression. "We were friends?"

Adam touched Jack's foot. Jack acknowledged the warning with a quick nod. "We were friends," he said, "very good friends."

"Gentlemen." They turned to see Dr. Cuddy in the doorway, a chart in her hand. "A word?" She inclined her head toward the hall, and Jack smiled at Claire, touched her hand oh so briefly, then turned and followed Adam into the hallway. It was too bright after the shadows in Claire's room, and he squinted. Dr. Cuddy held Claire's chart against her chest. "Don't remind her of things she cannot remember. You can't force the memories, and it will only frighten her."

"When do you think her memory will come back?" Jack slipped his hand in his pocket, leaning against the wall, taking weight off his healing leg.

Dr. Cuddy shrugged. "Truthfully, we expected memory loss surrounding the shooting, not total amnesia. We have no idea what's causing it. That said," she cut Jack off, holding a hand palm out, "we have the best diagnostic man in the country on staff. He'll be examining her later."

Jack was confused, and he looked at Adam, hoping his mentor had a better handle on the doctor's explanation. He looked as puzzled as Jack. Dr. Cuddy sighed, then leaned her shoulder against the wall, facing Jack, reaching out to touch his elbow. "It's very common for brain trauma to cause loss of memory surrounding events just before and after the event. It's not common to see total amnesia. We're concerned, so Dr. House and his team are going to run a number of tests, which are frightening in and of themselves, to a patient who has no clue who she is or why she can't remember. Having people from her past can make it worse - make her more frightened - or she may find it somewhat comforting, to know she had a past, people who cared about her, a life. Right now you have to give her hope that her memory will return, without throwing too much information at her. Amnesiacs will sometimes cling to what they've been told, present them as returning memory, when that's not the case, and not helpful for diagnosis and treatment."

"So I can't tell her we were in love."

"I wouldn't. Imagine the pressure she might feel to manufacture those feelings."

"If she asks, can I at least tell her we were lovers?"

"If she asks. I don't recommend lying to a direct question, but keep the information to a minimum. She might ask what kinds of movies she liked, for example, and it's OK to tell her that. She might ask how she felt about something, then you have to keep that kind of information at a minimum. Consider your rule of thumb as being questions about feelings should be avoided, questions about mundane things, like favorite foods or TV shows, can be answered."

"Can I go back in with her?"

"For a little while. Dr. House's team will be coming up shortly to start running tests." She patted his shoulder. "I know this is hard for you, but we'll get to the bottom of it. We may not ever get back the Claire you loved, but we'll do everything we can. When she's not with a member of Dr. House's team, you can be with her, if you'll agree to the rules."

He nodded, then pushed away from the wall. He walked back into Claire's room and stood beside her bed again. She looked up at him, he hated that blank look in her eyes. Then her hand came up and covered his, resting on the bed rail. "You're hurt," she said. "Were you hurt at the same time I was?"

He nodded, pathetically grateful for her hand on his.

"You said we were good friends?" He nodded again. "What happened to us?"

"A very bad man shot us, and a lot of other people."

"Is my memory going to come back?"

"I don't know, Claire, but the doctor was encouraging. They're going to start running tests on you."

"What was my job again? I was a lawyer? Your assistant?"

"Yes. A very good lawyer." He smiled.

"Were you my teacher, is that why I assisted you?"

"No. You were a damn fine lawyer, you helped me win cases." He wanted so much to tell her how much he loved her, she loved him, but he realized she was drawing inferences from their ages, it was all she had to work with.

"Am I married? Do I have a family?"

"No." He slipped his hand from beneath hers and then stroked her hair.

"Sir?" Jack turned and saw a male doctor with shaggy blonde hair, accompanied by a pretty woman he also assumed was a doctor, standing just inside the door. "Sir, we're going to have to ask you to leave, we have things to do." He sounded Australian. Jack nodded, then turned back to Claire. "I'll see you again, soon." She nodded, and he walked away from her. Adam waited in the seating area across from the nurse's station. Jack sank down beside him.

"I'm scared, Adam, she really doesn't know who she is, who I am. What if she doesn't come back?"

"You'll deal with that if it happens." He looked at his watch. "Listen, Jack, there's a hotel across the road, check into it and I'll have Henry bring you some clothes. I know I won't get any productive work out of you until Claire's well."

He rubbed his face, so tired. He watched the doctors on either side of Claire's bed, they were shifting bags to poles attached to the bed. Then they rolled her out of the room and down the hall. He got up, but Adam grabbed his wrist.

"You can't go with her, Jack."

He sat down again, leaning back, wondering what it was like to wake up with no idea of who you were - what your favorite food, color, clothes were, who you loved, who loved you, what religion you were, what you did for a living, did you have a pet - to wake up empty, scared, and hurting. H reached in his pocket for his Percocet, absently popping one, oblivious to Adam's concerned glance as the bottle slipped back in his pocket.

A tall, thin man, walking with the aid of a cane, dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and a black blazer, stopped at the nurse's station, then looked their way, nodded, and came forward. He stopped beside Jack, tapping Jack's cane with his. "Is this the Gimp Anonymous meeting?" He sat beside Jack, then took a pill bottle from his pocket and swallowed one, capped the bottle, and eased it into his side pocket. Adam couldn't believe his eyes, and he regarded the stranger with open hostility. "I'm looking for my patient's lover," he said, "I need her history, and that jerk I just left in my office didn't seem to willing to trust me with such sensitive information as when she lost her virginity, the kinds of guys she likes, where she went to school."

While Adam stared at the man with naked hostility, Jack smiled. "And what jerk would that be," he said, "an old man wearing a bowtie as well as a mantle of mental superiority and moral correctness?"

"That would be the one. He claimed he and his wife were her only family and I should pay no attention to the cripple behind the curtain." He met Jack's steady gaze with one of his own. "Since I've believed since Kent State that everybody lies, I have serious doubts about that man's veracity. How about yours?" He twirled his cane on its base. "I suppose we could go medieval, joust with our canes, but I think a man who's willing to admit he's nailing a girl half his age without blushing is a man who'll tell me the truth."

"And you are?"

"Dr. Greg House. We could go to my office, where I can send lackeys for coffee, but then that old man with his horrible bowtie may still be hanging around, drawing up a complaint about me, or we could go down to what passes for a cafeteria in this place." He finally looked at Adam. "If you're going to pop a screw, you'll find the emergency department down the hall, turn left, then right, follow the sounds of screaming people. If you want to file a complaint about me, the line starts at Lisa Cuddy's office." He looked back at Jack. " I really do have relevant questions. Relevant - that's a word lawyers like, right? Bowtie threw it around enough, but I think I topped him with irreversible brain damage and alternate personalities."

Jack was fascinated with this man, at last a no-bullshit doctor, even if he was a little rude. He got up, gripping his cane, and then looked at Adam. "I'll be back," he said. "If you need to go back to the city, I'll take you up on your offer of the hotel."

Adam stood and shook his head. "How do you know this man is a doctor? He sounds like an escapee from the psych ward."

Jack looked at the smiling man leaning on his cane and waiting. "If he's who he says he is, Dr. Cuddy said he was the best. I'll take my chances."

Adam felt a paternal outrage, Jack was in an easily manipulated condition. The man who claimed to be Dr. House sighed, then reached into his blazer's inner pocket and showed Adam a hospital ID. "Relax, Grandfather, I'll have Grasshopper returned to you in good condition, the normal wear and tear clause applying, of course. You can probably find Bowtie in Cuddy's office, which," he pointed toward the elevators with his cane, "is on the first floor, a big corner office with her name on the door. Feel free to jump the line so you can be with Bowtie. Coming, Grasshopper?"

Jack walked away with him, they fell into a sort of lockstep, each holding a cane in their right hands. Waiting at the elevator, Dr. House looked at Jack. "I really am the best shot your girlfriend has at recovery." The doors slid open and they hobbled in. House punched "one" with his cane. "I really am a jerk, too, or so thousands of patients' families will swear. But I will find out what's happening in her brain, and if you don't bullshit me, I won't play with you, either." He leaned against the wall. "So what did you do to piss off Bowtie?"

"Sleeping with his stepdaughter." Jack shrugged. "He was cultivating her for some Harvard law professor, not a working class district attorney."

The elevator stopped and House led Jack through a maze of hallways to a big office, Chief of Diagnostic Medicine engraved on the glass doors. A larger conference room was attached to the office. "If outraged step daddy is with Cuddy, we should hear shouting before long." He punched a button on the sound system on the wall behind his desk, and Billie Holiday filled the room. He sat behind his desk and pointed to the empty chair in front of his desk with his cane, before hanging it from the back of his chair. When Jack was seated, House leaned back, lifting his injured leg to the desktop. "Infarction," he said.

"Gunshot," Jack answered.

"Above or through the knee?"

"Above."

He nodded. "Trying to protect her?"

"Failing."

"Matter of perspective. Maybe the shooter was just a lousy shot."

The young woman physician Jack saw earlier came into the office, a printout dangling from her hand. She hesitated, looking at Jack. House held his hand out, wiggling his fingers impatiently, and she walked to him, putting it in his hand. "Cameron, would you get us some coffee?" She frowned, but turned and walked through the connecting door to the conference room. House watched her for a moment. "Now that's one sweet young thing I wouldn't touch with your dick."

Jack laughed. "And why's that?"

"Just pay attention - she has a thing for the wounded, she wants to fix us bad boys, whether we want fixing or not." She came back with two mugs of coffee and put them on House's desk. "You can go," he said. "Mr. McCoy and I are going to be discussing subjects not appropriate for young ears." The frown became a glare, but she left the office, returning to the conference room.

House picked up his coffee and then looked at the printout. He put it on his desk and looked at Jack. "We have a subdural hematoma - we can wait and see if it breaks up on its own, or we can go in - a risky option, as you can imagine. But the hematoma on its own wouldn't account for total amnesia. Located though it is on the area that controls memory and certain motor skills." He cradled his mug in his lap, evaluating the man in front of him. "What would she want to hide from, Mr. Bowtie? You? Grumpy Grandpa in the waiting room? Her job?"

Jack rubbed his leg, it hurt like hell. He reached in his pocket for his pills. Alert, House held his hand out for the bottle after Jack swallowed one. He examined the label, then gave it back. "If you need more when those run out, come see me." Jack nodded, then went through the process of easing out of his sling, then shedding his suit coat, then slipping his arm back into the sling. "Have you tried not using that thing?" House asked. "Might increase your pain level for awhile, but in the long run, it's better for your arm to move." Jack shrugged, then eased the sling off and dropped in on the floor, it felt weird, pain shot through his shoulder when he tentatively moved it, but he was willing to try getting through an hour without it.

Then he focused on Claire. "OK, all bullshit aside, what are we dealing with where Claire's concerned?"

"Think of her as a frightened zero. She's a blank slate, and that's scary as hell. She'll believe everything she's told about her past." His eyes narrowed with amusement. "So I'm thinking it might be in your best interest to ban Bowtie and company from her room."

"What did he say about me?"

"Oh, something along the lines of you're a dirty old man who's keeping his daughter back, that you've bewitched her with your magic wand, that you've isolated her from her family, from opportunities to move onward and upward, that you took advantage of her youth and inexperience. He's a real fan." House smirked. "He's a pompous ass, I'm familiar with the type. He insisted on knowing where I went to med school, I think I fractured his ego when I told him Hopkins."

The Percocet were going to Jack's head. "Claire went to Harvard, I might as well have gotten my law degree off the back of a matchbook. Dr. Cuddy told me not to tell her much about her past, she said it would interfere with the emergence of real memories. Is that true?"

House put his mug on his desk and studied the man across from him. He was in pain, physical and emotional; House usually didn't give a rat's ass about other people and their feelings, he never saw his patients if he could avoid it, handing that duty off to his staff, but he saw a mirror image of himself in the man across his desk. Middle-aged, successful in his chosen field, yet lonely and refusing to admit it. He'd found the one woman who could fill that loneliness, the one woman he could open himself to, to lose her would be devastating. House's patient, this man's lover, was Stacy, House realized, and he reached for his own pills, he couldn't think of Stacy without pain. What would he do if Stacy was lying in a hospital bed, with no memory of him, of what they'd been to each other, with no memory of what drove them apart? McCoy suffered fools no more easily than House did, and he realized McCoy was evaluating him as he measured McCoy. Bullshit detectors in high gear, he thought, this could be interesting.

"In most cases, yes," he answered. "False memories are no good. You want her to get well, you'll go along with medical advice. I don't think Bowtie will, I think he'll see an opening to remove you from Claire's life with a few well-chosen memories, true or not." He drummed his fingers on his desk. "Bowtie made the mistake of pissing me off." He smiled. "So I don't see anything wrong with a little underhanded play on your part. Or my part, if we don't want this coming back to bite you on the ass. Tell me about you and Claire. What you'd want her to remember first. Incredible sex?"

Jack grinned, he couldn't explain why he liked this strange doctor. "There was that, yes. We had a mutual case of bad handitis - we couldn't keep our hands off each other. And Mac - Bowtie to you - walked in on us at a particularly sensitive moment."

House snorted. "Howling at the moon and all that?"

It was a Sunday afternoon, they were brand new to each other, holed up in Claire's apartment, phones turned off, blinds drawn. They were on the couch, so lost in each other, he was driving for home, Claire's legs locked around his waist, and then the apartment door opened as Claire cried "Oh Jesus God." Jack pinched his nose, smiling now at the memory. "She was supposed to have Sunday brunch with her mother and Mac, and when she didn't show up, didn't answer her phone --"

"Bowtie took it upon himself to investigate." House reached for a tennis ball on his desk and tossed it in the air, catching it easily. "Is it safe to assume your Claire took her key back?"

"No." He smiled again, that crooked smile Claire loved. "She told Mac to go away, she's make it over to their house eventually but right now she was busy." House laughed. "And she did, go over there later, I mean, dragging me with her." Jack eased his shoulder, moving his elbow on the armrest. "She has style, ya know? She wasn't going to be embarrassed, and she wasn't going to apologize. Mac was not a happy camper."

House kept tossing the ball. "And you want her back."

"Yes." That simple answer clinched the deal, it was the kind of thing House would say to an idiotic question. He tossed the ball at Jack, who caught it with his good hand. "I don't care how you do it, I just want her back, uncontaminated by Mac's venom toward me."

"I'll walk you back to her room." They got up, struggling with their legs. "Keep an eye out for Cuddy, if MacBowtie screamed loudly enough about me, she'll scream at me - Cuddy's very good at kick the dog." They made for the elevators. "You have to stand up to Cuddy, by the way. Otherwise she'll confiscate your balls."

The elevator discharged them on four. "Ah shit," House said. Cuddy was waiting outside Claire's room. Her expression when she saw the two men, both wielding canes, both with hair too long and in need of a shave, tall lean men with determined expressions, she shook her head in disbelief.

"Don't tell me," she said, "separated at birth." She focused on House. "House, what the hell do you think you're doing, insulting her father?"

"I insult everyone, why are you surprised?" He took the chart from her hand, then printed "No Visitors" on it in block letters, then added the caveat "Except Jack McCoy." He smirked when he gave it back to Cuddy, then looked into Claire's room, where Mac sat by her bed. "C'mon, Jack, let's throw MacBowtie out."

"House!" Cuddy's voice could cut glass. "What are you up to?"

"Protecting my patient from the malevolent intentions of overweight, badly dressed men who would take advantage of her condition to poison her mind against the people who love her." He limped into the room, Jack a step behind him. He raised his voice, affecting his Medical Deity persona. "You sir," he said, poking Mac with his cane, "Are no longer permitted to visit my patient. Excuse yourself and get out of here."

Mac stood and turned, looking up at the tall man, then at McCoy. "You can't do that. This is my daughter."

"I can do it, this is my patient. Dr. Cuddy is in the hall, go complain to her, she'll tell you I most certainly can ban visitors in the best interest of my patient."

Mac's eyes narrowed, and he looked at Jack. "So why is he here?"

"Because, in my medical opinion, he has a vested interest in her welfare." House pointed to the door with his cane. Mac looked down at Claire. He patted her hand, then walked out, his voice carrying as he complained to Cuddy, fading as she led him away.

"Miss Kincaid, I'm Dr. House."

"I remember," she said, and her smile was almost fond. Then she looked at Jack. "And you're Jack. That man who said he was my father said you were a bad influence on me."

Jack looked at House for guidance. House shrugged. "Go ahead," he said, "Correct misinformation." He looked at Claire and smiled. "I live by one maxim, Miss Kincaid, and that's everybody lies. I'm making an exception for this man, I don't think he'll lie to you."

Jack moved to the bedside, noting Claire's eyes followed House. He touched her hand and she looked at him. "What did Mac say to you?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"That you held me back, wouldn't let me leave the DA's office for private practice, that you used me."

Jack frowned. "How was I supposed to do any of that?"

"House!" Jack looked at Dr. Cuddy, hands on her hips, standing in the door. House rolled his eyes, then walked slowly across the room, following Cuddy into the hall.

Jack turned his attention back to Claire. "I love you, Claire, something Mac hated. You loved me, which made it worse. He spent a lot of time trying to convince you to go into private practice, to dump me for someone your own age and in a superior tax bracket." She smiled, and for a moment he thought he'd reached something.

"So we were lovers," she said. He watched her process the thought, but it didn't change the blank look in her eyes. House returned to her bedside, and then her eyes lit up. "Are you in trouble?" she asked.

"Nah, your stepfather needed to rant a little, but hey, that MD at the end of my name stands for Medical Deity, not even MacBowtie can argue with God. He's pissed because I've prohibited all visitors except Jack."

"Why just Jack? Don't I have other friends, family?"

House smiled. "Let's just say I trust Jack to answer your questions honestly, while I try to figure out what's holding your memory hostage. I'll leave you with him for now."

"Where are you going?" There was a note of panic in her voice.

He turned and smiled. "I have test results to evaluate, and you need to get to know each other again." He looked at Jack. "If Papa tries to come back just hit the call button, we have a serious dyke working today, she'll kick his ass."

Jack looked down at Claire when he left, brushing her new hair. She accepted his touch, but he didn't push it. He pulled the chair closer to her bed and sat down. "I'm not supposed to tell you how you felt about things, but I don't know what else to talk about."

She watched his face. "You're hurting. This hurts you."

He tried to smile. "Well, my wounds hurt, too, but yes, this hurts me very much, I feel like I've lost you."

"We were that much to each other?"

He nodded, then reached in his pocket for his pills.

"What are those?" she asked.

"Painkillers." He swallowed one, then slid the bottle back in his pocket.

"What's the last thing we did before the shooting?"

He leaned back and crossed his legs. "Full accounting, or just the very last thing?"

"Full accounting."

"We made love, then showered and went down for coffee. Talbert showed up, led us the courthouse. We watched the transfer van pull up, and then all hell broke loose. I tried to cover you but I was too late."

She frowned. "You whispered my name." His head came up and he stared at her. He had, as he reached his climax, their slippery bodies pressed together. He waited for more, for her to remember that moment. She was focused on his face, his eyes, trying to draw from him the memories they shared. "You kissed me?"

He nodded.

She closed her eyes, but not before a tear slipped out. He felt helpless, afraid to fill in the gaps for her. "Oh Jesus God," she whispered, and he didn't know if she was quoting herself or uttering a quiet prayer. Then she opened her eyes, seeing him with a flicker of knowledge this time. "I think I should rest," she said, "I'm getting a headache."

He nodded and stood. "Should I get a nurse?"

She shook her head. "I just need to rest," she said. "Will you come back later?"

"Yes." Her eyes closed again and he left her room, pausing by the nurses station to mention her headache, then he went down to Dr. House's office.

House was in his chair, feet on his desk, headphones over his ears, eyes closed. Jack waited, unsure of himself. House opened his eyes, started, then took his headphones off. "Something up, Jack?"

Jack eased down in the visitor's chair. "She had fragments of memory." He glanced at the people in the conference room, bent over tables.

"Anything specific?"

"She asked me what we'd done the morning we were shot, so I told her, and it seemed to reach something locked inside."

"What did you do?"

He told him, then told him what Claire said. "Are those real memories?"

"Sounds like it. Sex is a primal evolutionary drive, if you're going to remember things, you'll choose sex over say what shirt you picked that morning." He shrugged. "We're thinking we'll wait and see if the hematoma shrinks on its own, it's dangerous to go in with sharp objects. It does happen, they do shrink, think of it as a big bruise that heals with time. I'm thinking maybe you should take her outside, sit in the sun for awhile, talk about whatever she wants."

"Fill in the blanks?" Jack twirled his cane between his palms. "Doesn't that put pressure on her to remember, to remember things my way?"

"What was your way, Jack?" He looked up as a black man stuck his head in the door. "Start blood thinners, lowest dose, do a repeat MRI in six hours. And while you're at it, get her up in a wheelchair, she's going to have an outing." The other doctor looked at House, shook his head, and returned to the group office. "Talk to me, Jack, tell me how it was for you." He reached into his pocket for his pain medication, then leaned back, hands folded on top of his belt buckle.

Jack eased the pressure on his own leg, extending it. He met House's intense gaze, reticent to go into such personal matters, then he shrugged. "I was your typical horny bastard. Nailed all my female assistants. Then one day my boss called me into his office - I was getting a new assistant, very young but very sharp, and I was to keep my dick to myself. She got a similar counseling session - I guess Adam got tired of having to replace my assistants." His smile was ironic. "Truth be told, I was tired of the game, anyway. Then Claire walked into my office, and I felt struck by lightning. Still, I was bound by my agreement with Adam, and I was determined to stick to it. And she wasn't interested in being another assistant with benefits." He sighed, glancing at the pretty young doctor in the other room. "You know how it is, long hours, teaching, researching, maybe a drink afterward, we began to relax around each other. The chemistry was incredible. I made up excuses to touch her - casually of course, a hand bump when exchanging files, brushing shoulders in the elevator - it grew impossible to deny the physical attraction, but I wanted her to make the first move. One night, going down in the elevator to the parking garage, she leaned against me, like maybe she was just tired. I didn't move, if I did I was going to rip her clothes off right in front of the security camera. We got in the garage, I walked her to her car, and I said screw it, I leaned her against her car and kissed her. We went straight to her place." He shrugged. "We couldn't get enough of each other after that. It got a little tricky at the office."

"Where's the most, uh, risky place you did it?"

Jack cocked his head. "Where are you going with this, Greg?"

"Down my own memory lane. Her name was Stacy, a lawyer. I still had a good leg, then. And I guess my theory is that if the chemistry was that strong, it still exists, you simply have to plug it in." He picked up his tennis ball and tossed it from hand to hand. "So?"

Jack shook his head. "The roof of Hogan Place. In the snow. Standing up."

House laughed. "The roof of this place, but it was summer." His phone rang. "House. Thanks, Foreman." He hung up and looked at Jack. "There's a picnic area on the south side. Can you push her there by yourself?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Foreman or one of the nurses will rat you out to Cuddy, so move fast."

Jack took his advice. He found Claire sitting in a wheelchair, in surgical scrubs, looking confused. She smiled when he came in. "Are you taking me somewhere?"

"Out in the sun," he said, hooking his cane over the back of the chair. He pushed her past the surprised nurses, into the elevator, and down to the first floor. Once outside, he found the picnic area, and parked her beside a table. He sat on the bench beside her. "Are you remembering anything?"

Her smile was shy. "I think so, I remember you whispering my name, remember your hands in my hair, you were looking at me." A hand rose to her head and she ruffled the new growth. "I don't think anyone will be putting their hands in my hair for a long time."

"Do you remember anyone, anything?"

"That man, Mac, he's very frustrated with me because I don't remember him. He said he'd been my father since I was a kid, that he made sure I got into Smith and then into Harvard, but --" She shrugged. "I don't remember him." A sweet smile broke across her face. "He doesn't like you, I don't know if that's points in his favor or not."

"But you do remember me, a little?"

A blush crept up her neck and she looked away. "I remember certain things about you, I think. I'm not sure they're the sort of thing I should tell Dr. House."

He smiled. "It's OK, I told him." She looked at him, he couldn't tell if she was surprised or amused.

"Was sex all there was between us, Jack?"

He frowned. "Mac tell you that?" She nodded. "No. We were in love, Claire. We had plans."

"What kind of plans?"

"We were going to spend a couple of weeks at Martha's Vineyard when this case was over," he said, staring at two squirrels playing a vicious game of chase.

"Is that case over now?"

He looked back at her, her bruises, her surface wounds had healed over the weeks she's spent sleeping. Hiding, he heard House say, and he twirled his cane between his palms. "No, they haven't caught Kunta Smith yet. They will, it's just a matter of time," he added when he saw the fear in her eyes.

"Have I been to Martha's Vineyard?"

"Yeah. Your mother and Mac own a cottage there, they were going to let us use it."

She cocked her head. "Why would they do that if they don't like you?"

He sighed, looking to the sky for help. "It's not me per se they don't like, Claire, it's my age, my occupation, your willingness to stay in the same job with me, instead of moving up in the legal world. Undue influence was how Mac put it. Your mother, on the other hand, did like me. They accepted certain things - that you were in love with me, that we were going to be together - but Mac never stopped pushing you to move on, into private practice."

She tapped her index finger on the armrest. "Did I want to get married, have kids?"

"Someday. Not right away. You always said you'd wait until you were thirty to get married."

"How old am I?" A flash of frustration lit her eyes; she knew she'd been given this information before but couldn't remember it.

"Twenty-six." He touched her knee, and felt the old jolt, her flesh against his. She looked at him, curious, had she felt it too? He wanted desperately to make the connection again, to remind her on a visceral level of what they'd had, and he leaned forward, kissing her, gently, seeking some kind of recognition within her body if not her mind. She kissed him back, tentatively, then pulled away and looked at him. He picked up her hand, held it between his, watching her face for any reaction.

She looked down at her hand between his. "That seemed familiar," she said, and she looked up with a shy smile. "Is it a recommended therapy for amnesia?"

"I don't know, but if it works --"

"Mr. McCoy." Dr. Cuddy's shadow fell across them. She had her hands in her lab coat pockets, and she studied McCoy like a bug under the microscope. "I can only presume Dr. House told you to bring her out here."

"He did."

"Dr. House frequently goes for treatments that push the envelope." She sighed. "I'm not saying Miss Kincaid can't benefit from a little sun, but swapping spit is not a good idea, her resistance to infection is compromised at the moment. Let's get her back inside, then we'll have a chat with Dr. House."

Fresh misery shadowed Jack as he walked alongside Claire's wheelchair. He felt he'd been close to reaching the Claire locked away from reality, and then he felt stupid, what was he going to do, throw her on the grass and have his way with her?

When Claire was installed in her bed again, Dr. Cuddy beckoned and Jack followed. They went down to House's office. He was playing air guitar with his cane, listening to The Who; he reluctantly stopped his performance and turned the music down, then flopped in his chair, offering the one across his desk to Jack. He eyed Cuddy with amusement mixed with contempt. "Yes, master," he said.

"What were you thinking?" she asked.

"About what? I'm always thinking."

"Sending this man outside with your patient?"

"Was he trying to sneak her off hospital grounds?"

"He was kissing her."

"You sly dog." He grinned at Jack, then looked at Cuddy. "I assure you they've exchanged bodily fluids before, Cuddy. It's not like he's introducing some foreign substance into her weakened body."

"She doesn't know who he is."

"Did it look like she objected to being kissed by a strange man?" House picked up his ball and tossed it toward the ceiling. Then he focused on Dr. Cuddy. "I think she's hiding, I think she was so traumatized, was under so much pressure in her personal life, that she's retreated from reality. Her bruised brain is healing, but that doesn't mean she wants to come back. I think her stepfather, for example, is putting intolerable pressure on her. This man, on the other hand, is safe, which is why fragmentary memories of him are emerging."

"What kinds of memories?" Cuddy whirled on Jack. He blushed, and House leaned forward, poking Cuddy with his cane. "Don't embarrass the man, why should he tell you she's remembering sex with him? Personally, I think he should go upstairs, lock the door and pull the blinds, and give it to her until she screams for mercy. That ought to bring her back."

"House, you are one sick --" she cut herself off, then turned to Jack. "Don't you dare listen to him, Mr. McCoy." She perched on the edge of the desk, between House and McCoy's line of sight. She focused on the worn, tense lawyer who, she knew, would grasp at anything to bring his girlfriend back. "I believe her memories will come back, as the swelling, the bruise if you will, recedes, but if you push things right now, all you're going to do is create new memories of you, of a man who wanted one thing and wanted it now. You're going to have to build a new relationship for the time being, spend time with her building her trust. If her first recovered memories are sexual, then talk about them, for God's sake don't act on them. If she wants you to kiss her, OK, I can go with that, but do not go further, she isn't ready for it and it may send her further back into that place in her mind where she feels she has to hide. Do you understand?"

"Can I take her out of the hospital? She seemed to like being outside."

"Yes, we can allow that, short visits to the picnic area." She turned on the desk, looking at House. "Your staff has finished with the MRI, in case you're interested." She turned back to Jack. "Go sit with her, just talk to her, but let her lead the conversation."

Jack found her watching Maury, apparently fascinated by all these women screaming at men who screamed back about paternity. "Is this real?" she asked, and he knew she was serious.

"No, it's theatre of the absurd." He eased down in the chair and reached for his pills. "Anything to get your fifteen minutes of fame."

She clicked the remote control to off, then looked at him. "Was Dr. Cuddy mad at you for kissing me?"

"No. She just said I should allow you to initiate it." His crooked smile appeared.

"You like kissing me."

"I do. I like touching you, holding you, making love to you." He loved sleeping curled around her, his hand cupping her breast, and he was afraid those nights were gone.

She rubbed the back of her head. "I had long hair?"

"Not too long." He dug his wallet out of his pocket, fished out a snapshot he'd taken of her, walking along the beach at Martha's Vineyard, a snowy day, and he gave it to her. She studied it for a long time.

"I look happy," she said, giving it back.

"You were. It was a great weekend."

"You brought champagne."

"Yes, I did. We'd just won the McGuire case."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't remember." She held out her hand and he took it. "I have these fragments, like puzzle pieces. That man Mac, dragging me into his office, he was mad, and it had something to do with you, with me throwing my life away." Her frown deepened. "It seems like you were there, my mother wouldn't look at you?"

He remembered. It was when Mac walked in on them screwing, followed by their very late appearance at Mrs. Gellar's brunch. He'd heard Mac yelling through his office door, despite Mrs. Gellar's attempts to cover it with conversation. "You think if you get pregnant, he'll stick around?" And Claire had come out a few minutes later, in tears, taking Jack's hand and telling her mother that while she was sorry to have ruined brunch, she wouldn't be accepting anymore invitations, if her stepfather was going to call her a whore, he could say it to an empty room.

"What," Claire said, softly, weaving her fingers through his. "What are you remembering?"

"Something painful. He hurt you very much."

"Mac? What did he say?"

Jack struggled, this was his chance to push Mac's interfering ass out of Claire's life forever, but he wasn't sure it was right. "He said unkind, untrue things about us."

"What did he say?"

Jack took a deep breath. "He said you were a whore for sleeping with me." He squeezed her hand. "He said I was a whore, too." She looked at him, cocking her head familiarly. "I had a reputation for sleeping with my assistants."

House came in, and Claire's face lit up. Jack's stomach took the express elevator south, that look had once been reserved for him. House glanced at him, smiled sympathetically, then addressed his patient. "Your hematoma is shrinking, if it's the cause of your amnesia, memory should start flooding back." He turned back to Jack. "See you outside for a moment?" Jack got up and hobbled after the crippled doctor. House reached into his pocket, then produced a folded piece of paper. "You can get this filled downstairs." Jack unfolded the paper and saw a prescription for Percocet. "I know how gunshot pain works, between your leg and your shoulder, you're going to be hurting for awhile, but good luck finding a physician willing to prescribe. And don't worry about how she looks at me, it's called transference, it won't last long. It's one reason I usually avoid patients, that and I don't give a rat's ass about people in general." He shrugged. "I want you to take her out of here for the weekend, even if it's just across the street to the Hilton, just talk, talk about the past, her life as your assistant, whatever. I'll send Cameron out to get clothes for her, then I want you to take her out of here, new sights, sounds, so forth may help stimulate her memories. Personally, I think she's hiding from her parents, there's a lot of baggage there, she doesn't want to face it anymore."

Jack held the door to his hotel room open for her, and she walked in, somewhat tentative, starting when the door closed. She smiled, embarrassed, then walked to the window, looking down on the view of the road and the hospital. "Dr. House says I can go home soon, my body is healed and my mind will follow."

Jack came up behind her, running on instincts, House had been specific about that. He put his hands on her shoulders and watched the constantly moving scene below. She didn't flinch at his touch; she leaned her head against his shoulder, a quiet gesture of trust. Then she moved away and opened the mini-bar. "Want a drink?" she asked, kneeling in front of the little refrigerator.

Oh yeah he wanted a drink, but the narcotics he was taking every four hours prohibited such indulgences. "Sure, is there a Diet Coke in there?" He stretched out on the near bed, his leg throbbing, his shoulder aching. Claire rose with two cans of Diet Coke in hand, smiling. She sat on the edge of the bed, near his wounded knee, and opened one, passing it to him. Then she opened hers.

"Did I smoke? I feel like I should have a cigarette," she said, grinning.

"You did when you were super stressed. We'd go up on the roof and share one. I always expected some zealous rookie to burst through the roof door and try to bust us for smoking pot."

She rubbed his shin, her touch so light, so familiar. "What else did I do?"

"You liked bad jokes, old scotch, you had this black leather jacket you loved. You'd have worn it to court if you could have gotten away with it."

She smiled. "Are you telling me I was a biker chick?"

He grinned. "You did like riding my bike, though you had one hell of a death grip."

"Why did Mac dislike you so much, was so hard on me, and where was my mother in all of it?"

He wasn't surprised at her skill at switching tangents, it's what made her such a good lawyer. "Mac felt I was too old for you, and your mother supported him in that, though she was kinder about it. She wanted grandchildren, and felt I was too old to want to be a parent again. Mac wanted you on the Supreme Court one day, and didn't see that happening if you stayed with the district attorney's office." He didn't mind remind repeating himself, House warned him short term memory was as impaired as her long term.

"Would you want to be a parent again?"

He smiled and picked up her hand. "I could be talked into it. I always told you if you wanted a child, I'd be willing."

"Did you ever say no to me?"

He laughed. "Lots of times." He watched her, she was so beautiful, even with that short hair, wearing the Ralph Lauren polo shirt and jeans Dr. Cameron picked out for her, forest green was a good color for her. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but he remembered House's warning - she leads this dance, McCoy, keep your wang in your pants unless she wants it to come out and play.

She eased down beside him, lying on her back, her drink resting on her waist. "I keep having these flashes, but I don't know if I'm remembering, or if they're my interpretation of things I've been told."

"Like what?"

"An old man, yelling at me, telling me I was off a case, I guess I screwed up, and you defended me."

He nodded. "That happened. You'd cut a plea bargain with a guy for stalking, and then a couple of months later he killed three people. That old guy is our boss, Adam Schiff, he was just mad at himself for telling you to plead it out and taking it out on you."

"Did I screw up a lot?"

"No. You were very good. You were the conscience of the office in many ways. You always said what you thought."

"When we fell in love - when did we fall in love?"

"From the first day." He smiled, turning his head on the pillow to look at her. "Maybe it was just hormones, but damn - the attraction was immediate and it was intense. We made up excuses to just casually touch each other." He held her gaze, willing her to remember.

"You always sat too close on that couch," she said.

"Nah, that was you." He grinned. "You always did the broad jump when Adam came into the office."

"Liar," she said, and slapped his shoulder. He held her gaze, he wanted to kiss her so much, and then she took his Coke, put it on the end table next to hers, and turned on her side, putting her hand on his side. He felt invitation, and he put his hand on her back, then leaned forward, kissing her lightly. Her tongue came out to meet his, and he rolled partially over her, kissing her for real, then grazing her neck with his lips and tongue before kissing her again. God, he thought, stop, don't push it. He looked at her, holding her shoulder, asking what she wanted with pleading eyes. She touched his face, her fingers spread, drawing them down his cheek, then she rubbed his chin with her thumb.

"This is new for me," she whispered, "I should remember, but I don't. My brain feels like a virgin, my body tells me otherwise."

He kissed her again, his hand rubbing her side, feeling her ribs, wanting to move. The ache in his groin was agonizing. He slid his hand under her shirt, touching her skin, that familiar warm, supple, responsive skin, touched the fabric of her bra, slipped his hand to her back and unhooked it with a practiced snap of his wrist, then worked his fingers under the material, pushing it up, as his hand closed so gently on her breast. He looked at her again, as her nipple hardened under the stroke of his thumb. Uncertainty was in her eyes, though her body arched toward his. He pushed her shirt up, then took her nipple in his mouth, licking it, and he heard her gasp. He looked up, afraid he'd gone too far.

"No," she whispered, "it's OK. Ever deflowered a mental virgin?"

He grinned. "No, but I'll give it a shot." He helped her off with her shirt, then pulled his off. She looked at his chest, reached for it, caressing it. He unbuttoned her jeans, pulled her zipper, then reached for his own, pushing his jeans to his knees, then yanking them off before pulling Claire's off. They stared at each other; he knew her body well but she was studying his intently, reaching to caress his engorged penis. He stretched out beside her and ran his hand along her naked side, running his fingertips along the inside of her thighs, kissing her, kissing her breasts, rolling between her legs. She bent her knees as he eased into her, then held her shoulders, afraid to move, he was ready to explode. She moved under him, a familiar movement, and he looked at her. She smiled, locking him in place with her legs. He moved then, supporting his weight on his arms, staring down at her, watching a parade of emotions cross her face. He drove harder, deeper, struggling to reach that one memory that was his, always his; her legs went around his waist and then he felt the waves of contractions that signaled her orgasm, her eyes closed and she screamed "Oh sweet Jesus!" He went off like the fourth of July, easing down on her, letting his own waves of pleasure subside.

He rolled off her, taking her into his arms, her head on his shoulder. "I forgot that?" she said, laughing, rising up on her elbow. He saw it then, the memories of their varied unions, of what was between them. She kissed him, then pushed his hair off his forehead. "People v Williamson, Adam Schiff on a tear - 'And I thought you people worked late to work!"

Jack laughed. "You're remembering."

"I'm remembering that. Jesus." She shook her head. "How did we live that one down?"

"Adam's been laid in his time."

She punched him, playfully, in the shoulder. "Oh my God. What an image to put in my innocent mind." She eased her head back on his shoulder. "I love you, that's all I need to remember for now."

"The rest will come with time. Will you come home with me? Dr. House will release you to me, your body is perfectly healthy and the rest will come with time. Adam's holding your job." He cupped her cheek in his palm.

"Yes." She rolled on top of him. "Will you put up with my lapses, my short term memory hiccups?"

He smiled. "If you forget what we just did, I'll gladly remind you. And yes, I'll be cool with any memory lapses, with all your questions. I just want you back, and I think being in familiar surroundings will only help bring things back."

"You've got me back, I just don't know how long you can put up with me."

"Forever," he said. "Let's get you checked out of the hospital and home."

House smiled at Jack as he signed the release documents. "Broke all the rules, did you," he said, and glanced at Claire. "Rules are for those who prefer safety over risk. No risk, no gain. She'll get better, but I want to see her in a month." He tore off a sheet and gave it to Jack. "And make sure you invite MacBowtie to dinner."

Claire took Jack's hand as they left the hospital, falling into his hobbled step. "What was that all about?" she asked.

"Flaunting," he said, "flaunting risk over playing it safe, winners versus losers, freedom versus the structured life." He looked down at her. "About coming home against the odds."

They stepped into the elevator.

END


End file.
